


our broken fairy tale

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Community: spnspringfling, Implied Underage Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Incestuous Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Underage, Intense Feelings of Co-Dependency, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Underage Sex, Pre-Slash, Supernatural Spring Fling, Supernatural Spring Fling 2020, Underage Relationship(s), Underage Sam Winchester, teenage angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: Once upon a time there were two brothers.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42
Collections: Supernatural Spring Fling 2020





	our broken fairy tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmyPond45](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyPond45/gifts).



> So I might have over-warned for this, but since some readers are heavily squicked by anything underage I thought I'd err on the side of caution. Sam is 15 in this story and in love with his brother, but there are no explicit sexual situations.
> 
> Written for the 2020 round of SPN Spring Fling, for AmyPond45 and her prompt: _all this time, I thought it was just me_.

High summer in North Dakota, and the cottonwoods are shedding their leaves as if trying to entice the coming autumn into an early arrival. The bright dome of the sky blazes azure-blue in the heat of day, cloudless and seemingly endless, yet Sam knows it for the flimsy thing it is, can almost see the splash of stars he knows so well burning there above him, just behind the glare of the late July sun. 

The bark against his back feels uneven, digs into him through the worn fabric of his t-shirt if he leans too hard into it. It keeps him grounded, keeps his mind from drifting too far into daydreams. That's a constant struggle these days; at fifteen Sam's aware of his body in all the awkward teenage ways, hands and feet too large for his gangly limbs, coarser hairs everywhere, the ripe smell of his sweat and the cracking timbre of his voice. The longing that aches so fiercely in his chest he can feel it deep inside his belly sometimes, in the eager weight between his legs, and Sam falls so easily into fantasies then, giving into those yearnings and seeking to escape them all at the same time. 

And here comes Dean, screen door banging behind him as he walks down the porch stairs. Here comes Dean, gleaming golden where Sam is gloom, freckled skin and honey smile, the distinct bow of his legs and the sure sway of his hips, the gleam in his eyes that Sam would know anywhere, his one fixed point in a chaotic world. 

"Thought you might be thirsty," Dean says. There are twin glasses of lemonade in his hands, and Sam accepts one gratefully, throat hurting when he gulps down half of it in one go. 

Dean settles down next to him, oblivious of personal space. Their shoulders press together, arms brushing each time Dean brings his glass to his lips. Sam watches him from the corners of his eyes, traces the shape of Dean's knees under faded denim, lets his gaze rest on Dean's exposed toes and the frayed straps of his flip flops. Something about seeing his brother this relaxed and vulnerable makes Sam's throat hurt again.

It's just the two of them. Just the two of them in this cabin in the middle of the woods, just him and Dean living lazy summer days together, no gore or graveyard dirt, Dad's yelled orders for them to stay put long drowned beneath the crunch of gravel under tires and the fragile quiet left behind, and Sam's never felt happier or more miserable. Because here they are, just the two of them, just the two of them, and Sam's awkward teenage body yearns, and his too-old heart grows and shrinks inside him with each and every orbit he and Dean make around each other, like Dean's the sun and the moon all-in-one, tugging, pulling, making Sam spin.

"How come you're out here with no books in sight?" 

There's real curiosity in Dean's voice, and Sam shrugs just to make their shoulders bump together. "Read them all already."

"Like that's ever stopped you before."

Sam can hear the smirk in Dean's words, and he turns his head to look at his brother's face. The tenderness that Sam finds there feels like a punch to his gut. He shrugs again, voiceless for the time being.

"Remember when you were little?" Dean asks, and Sam knows exactly what Dean's thinking, just like that, without having to ask any questions of his own. 

"You used to tell me stories."

"Yeah." Dean sounds almost wistful. "Been a while, huh?" 

"Can't even remember the last time," Sam says. 

A soft huff. "Me neither." 

Sudden boldness makes Sam search Dean's eyes, and Dean's open gaze does nothing but lure him in. "Wanna tell me one now?"

A snort. Dean leans back against their tree, closing his eyes, shutting Sam out. The delicate fan of Dean's eyelashes against his cheek shouldn't feel this devastating. 

"Yeah, dumb idea." The disappointment in Sam's voice is loud enough, and Dean's right next to him. Of course he hears it. 

"What," Dean says, sitting up straight, whole body turning toward Sam. "You really want a story? 'Cause I've got plenty of 'em."

It's Sam's turn to snort. "I don't wanna hear about your sexcapades, Dean."

"Not even about that time when I was datin' Jenny Miller and you walked in on us just when she was about to-"

"Dean!"

Dean's laughter pierces Sam like an arrow. "You're so pretty when you're blushin', Sammy." 

"Jerk." It comes out much angrier than Sam wants, jealousy feeding the heat that's simmering under his skin. He registers the sting in Dean's eyes, feels his own eyes sting in empathy and remorse as he looks away. 

Air fills the empty space next to him when Dean stands up. Sam keeps his gaze averted as Dean gathers their discarded glasses and makes his way back inside the cabin. Hands balled into fists, Sam digs his fingernails into his palms, but not even the indent of eight half moons can counter Dean's pull. Even when Sam's alone Dean is still there, in the rush of his blood and the shape of his insides. 

For a while then Sam merely exists, his hitching breaths mingling with every other sound around him, rustling leaves and buzzing insects, the songs of birds and streaming water, like Sam's not a thing apart from nature but a part of it, every impure thought he's ever had having a place in the great balance of the universe, no dark without light, no wrong without right. No Sam without Dean. 

By the time the screen door adds its bang to the constant chorus of the woods again Sam's adrift in dreams. It's only when Dean's shadow falls over him that Sam looks up. 

"If we're gonna do this," Dean says, and he throws a pillow at Sam, "then we're gonna do it just like we used to."

"Huh?" The pillow that Sam's hugging to him is Dean's; he can smell his brother on it, bitter sweat and bittersweet. 

"Story time, baby brother." Dean says it without a hint of teasing, and Sam's helpless against what those two words do to him strung together like that. 

The army green blanket that Dean spreads on the ground is an old one. Sam recognizes it, has slept wrapped up in it in the backseat of the Impala countless times, has shared it with Dean in long drives through winter country, the two of them cocooned in the warmth they made together. They've puked and bled on it, sweated fevers into it, bundled it up beneath their sleepy heads in search of comfort. It's gone through more washes than anything should be able to withstand and it's still whole somehow, it still smells like the home they've never had. 

Once they're both settled on top of the blanket Sam wishes he could snap a picture of them like this, the pillow under Dean's head, Sam's head resting on Dean's shoulder and Dean's arm around him, gathering Sam close, holding him like something precious. Sam grabs a handful of Dean's t-shirt and hangs on for dear life.

"You good?"

Sam can't quite keep himself from trembling. "Y-yeah." 

"Once upon a time," Dean says. His fingers tangle in Sam's hair and stay. "Hmm, once upon a time there were two brothers. They weren't twins, and no one who looked at them would think that they were, but they were as close as people say twins are, closer, even. The older brother was tall and gorgeous and all the ladies in the land loved him, and he sure loved a lot of them back. But that wasn't real love, not like the love he felt for his little brother."

Lost in the cadence of Dean's voice and anchored by the immediacy of him, the touch-smell of Dean that he can almost _taste_ , Sam's more than a little spellbound. "It wasn't?"

"Nope. 'Cause see, the older brother, he'd been there, watching his little brother grow up since he was a baby, rocking him to sleep and holding him through his nightmares, feeding him and protecting him even when he wasn't so great at it. So it's like the little brother was a part of him, you know? Like he was more than just his brother, though the big brother couldn't ever find the right words to fit them."

"Oh," Sam breathes. 

It's unexpected. It opens a lock in Sam's chest, or maybe in his belly; somewhere in the middle of him, in the exact spot where his soul lives, and Dean's words slip in one by one and arrange themselves in there like the pieces of a puzzle, like the threads in a tapestry that when woven together just so reveal the pattern that they were always supposed to form. 

They don't really speak about these things. Talking about any feelings is a rare occurrence, and it only ever happens in the dark, when they can't see each other's faces, can't look in each other's eyes. They're not looking now but it's the middle of the afternoon, tree branches moving with the breeze and throwing specks of sunlight at them. 

"So, uhm. The little brother wasn't so tall yet, though he kept growing and tryin' to catch up. And he had messy hair that was always fallin' over his eyes, like he wanted to hide, maybe, like he didn't want people to see him. But the older brother saw him anyway, 'cause even though the little brother was the smarter one of the two, there was no way he could hide from his big brother. And oh yeah, they were both really brave too, were always fighting monsters and keepin' other people safe, but the thing that they both wanted the most was to keep each other safe, and they couldn't always do that. They were always gettin' hurt, and it was always hard for them to see the other get hurt. Their dad was a brave hunter too, and the brothers were both scared of losing him, but the thing that scared them the most was losing each other," Dean says, a catch in his voice.

"Dean," Sam says. It sounds like a plea, and it is. Because it's too much. It's just too much and Sam can't deal with it, he doesn't understand why Dean's telling him all of this but he can't hear it, he _can't_. 

Dean presses his lips to the crown of Sam's head, nuzzles him there. "I don't know how the rest goes," he murmurs. "Don't know if there's a happy ending." 

And what if there isn't? What it there isn't, Sam wonders. And then the answer's there, clear and true inside him, impossible to ignore. He's not nearly as brave as the little brother that Dean sees, not nearly, but just now with Dean holding him this close Sam can believe that he is. "You and me, Dean. That's the only ending there is." 

Even he can't fully grasp what he means. All he knows is that he means it. 

"Sammy," Dean whispers. Hoarse and broken as if he's the one who can't bear to hear anything more. 

Heart-shaped leaves keep landing all around them. Sunbeams keep splintering through the gaps in the branches above, scattering light all over them. They cut deep into Sam, each sunny shard, all the rough edges in his brother's voice. 

"I thought it was just me," Sam says. He shifts against Dean, cuddles against Dean's chest, lets Dean's heart beat a frantic rhythm in his ear. "All this time, I thought it was just me."

When Dean's grip on Sam's hair tightens to the point of pain, Sam has no trouble accepting it as a wordless admission. 

They stay that way, barely breathing, for a moment out of time. Sam feels exposed lying out in the open in his brother's arms, feels himself sticking to Dean where their bodies are pressed together and he knows it's just sweat but it should be more; Sam should be bleeding out from a thousand tiny cuts. He should be hiding in shame, he should be shaking with desire. He should be crying with relief. But there's only hushed anticipation instead. 

He's never had anything like this happen to him before. None of his dreams has ever come true. 

In the months and years ahead, Sam will remember that wonder-filled thought and _ache_. 

He'll remember Dean's callused thumb on his neck and the way they both shivered. He'll remember Dean's breath against his forehead, warm and a little wet, the open-mouthed drag of lips that should have been the prelude to Sam's first kiss.

But Dean, Dean who's golden where Sam is gloom, Dean who smells honey sweet and bittersweet, Dean who's Sam's fixed North Star and the gravity that tugs at him--Dean scrambles to his feet and hurries back inside the cabin. 

The cottonwoods sigh. Jagged sunlight slices into everything, sharp and cruel until twilight melts it away.

 _Once upon a time there were two brothers alone in the woods_.

"They didn't think they were lost," Sam says out loud.

One by one, the stars that Sam's been waiting for all day twinkle into view, calling out to him through distance and time. But it's the amber glow spilling out into the dark from the cabin windows that lights Sam's way. 

***


End file.
